The land dropped abruptly down from the gate, and a thick, shrubby
growth of young apple orchard almost hid the little weather-grey house
from the road. This was why the young man who opened the sagging gate
could not see that it was boarded up, and did not cease his cheerful
whistling until he had pressed through the crowding trees and found
himself almost on the sunken stone doorstep over which in olden days
honeysuckle had been wont to arch. Now only a few straggling,
uncared-for vines clung forlornly to the shingles, and the windows
were, as has been said, all boarded up.
The whistle died on the young man's lips and an expression of blank
astonishment and dismay settled down on his face--a good, kindly,
honest face it was, although perhaps it did not betoken any pronounced
mental gifts on the part of its owner.
"What can have happened?" he said to himself. "Uncle Tom and Aunt
Sally can't be dead--I'd have seen their deaths in the paper if they
was. And I'd a-thought if they'd moved away it'd been printed too.
They can't have been gone long--that flower-bed must have been made up
last spring. Well, this is a kind of setback for a fellow. Here I've
been tramping all the way from the station, a-thinking how good it
would be to see Aunt Sally's sweet old face again, and hear Uncle
Tom's laugh, and all I find is a boarded-up house going to seed.
S'pose I might as well toddle over to Stetsons' and inquire if they
haven't disappeared, too."
He went through the old firs back of the lot and across the field to a
rather shabby house beyond. A cheery-faced woman answered his knock
and looked at him in a puzzled fashion. "Have you forgot me, Mrs.
Stetson? Don't you remember Lovell Stevens and how you used to give
him plum tarts when he'd bring your turkeys home?"
Mrs. Stetson caught both his hands in a hearty clasp.
"I guess I haven't forgotten!" she declared. "Well, well, and you're
Lovell! I think I ought to know your face, though you've changed a
lot. Fifteen years have made a big difference in you. Come right in.
Pa, this is Lovell--you mind Lovell, the boy Aunt Sally and Uncle Tom
had for years?"
"Reckon I do," drawled Jonah Stetson with a friendly grin. "Ain't
likely to forget some of the capers you used to be cutting up. You've
filled out considerable. Where have you been for the last ten years?
Aunt Sally fretted a lot over you, thinking you was dead or gone to
the bad."
Lovell's face clouded.
"I know I ought to have written," he said repentantly, "but you know
I'm a terrible poor scholar, and I'd do most anything than try to
write a letter. But where's Uncle Tom and Aunt Sally gone? Surely they
ain't dead?"
"No," said Jonah Stetson slowly, "no--but I guess they'd rather be.
They're in the poorhouse."
"The poorhouse! Aunt Sally in the poorhouse!" exclaimed Lovell.
"Yes, and it's a burning shame," declared Mrs. Stetson. "Aunt Sally's
just breaking her heart from the disgrace of it. But it didn't seem as
if it could be helped. Uncle Tom got so crippled with rheumatism he
couldn't work and Aunt Sally was too frail to do anything. They hadn't
any relations and there was a mortgage on the house."
"There wasn't any when I went away."
"No; they had to borrow money six years ago when Uncle Tom had his
first spell of rheumatic fever. This spring it was clear that there
was nothing for them but the poorhouse. They went three months ago and
terrible hard they took it, especially Aunt Sally, I felt awful about
it myself. Jonah and I would have took them if we could, but we just
couldn't--we've nothing but Jonah's wages and we have eight children
and not a bit of spare room. I go over to see Aunt Sally as often as I
can and take her some little thing, but I dunno's she wouldn't rather
not see anybody than see them in the poorhouse."
Lovell weighed his hat in his hands and frowned over it reflectively.
"Who owns the house now?"
"Peter Townley. He held the mortgage. And all the old furniture was
sold too, and that most killed Aunt Sally. But do you know what she's
fretting over most of all? She and Uncle Tom will have been married
fifty years in a fortnight's time and Aunt Sally thinks it's awful to
have to spend their golden wedding anniversary in the poorhouse. She
talks about it all the time. You're not going, Lovell"--for Lovell had
risen--"you must stop with us, since your old home is closed up. We'll
scare you up a shakedown to sleep on and you're welcome as welcome. I
haven't forgot the time you caught Mary Ellen just as she was tumbling
into the well."
"Thank you, I'll stay to tea," said Lovell, sitting down again, "but I
guess I'll make my headquarters up at the station hotel as long as I
stay round here. It's kind of more central."
"Got on pretty well out west, hey?" queried Jonah.
"Pretty well for a fellow who had nothing but his two hands to depend
on when he went out," said Lovell cautiously. "I've only been a
labouring man, of course, but I've saved up enough to start a little
store when I go back. That's why I came east for a trip now--before
I'd be tied down to business. I was hankering to see Aunt Sally and
Uncle Tom once more. I'll never forget how kind and good they was to
me. There I was, when Dad died, a little sinner of eleven, just
heading for destruction. They give me a home and all the schooling I
ever had and all the love I ever got. It was Aunt Sally's teachings
made as much a man of me as I am. I never forgot 'em and I've tried to
live up to 'em."
After tea Lovell said he thought he'd stroll up the road and pay Peter
Townley a call. Jonah Stetson and his wife looked at each other when
he had gone.
"Got something in his eye," nodded Jonah. "Him and Peter weren't never
much of friends."
"Maybe Aunt Sally's bread is coming back to her after all," said his
wife. "People used to be hard on Lovell. But I always liked him and
I'm real glad he's turned out so well."
Lovell came back to the Stetsons' the next evening. In the interval he
had seen Aunt Sally and Uncle Tom. The meeting had been both glad and
sad. Lovell had also seen other people.
"I've bought Uncle Tom's old house from Peter Townley," he said
quietly, "and I want you folks to help me out with my plans. Uncle Tom
and Aunt Sally ain't going to spend their golden wedding in the
poorhouse--no, sir. They'll spend it in their own home with their old
friends about them. But they're not to know anything about it till the
very night. Do you s'pose any of the old furniture could be got back?"
"I believe every stick of it could," said Mrs. Stetson excitedly.
"Most of it was bought by folks living handy and I don't believe one
of them would refuse to sell it back. Uncle Tom's old chair is here to
begin with--Aunt Sally give me that herself. She said she couldn't
bear to have it sold. Mrs. Isaac Appleby at the station bought the set
of pink-sprigged china and James Parker bought the grandfather's clock
and the whatnot is at the Stanton Grays'."
For the next fortnight Lovell and Mrs. Stetson did so much travelling
round together that Jonah said genially he might as well be a bachelor
as far as meals and buttons went. They visited every house where a bit
of Aunt Sally's belongings could be found. Very successful they were
too, and at the end of their jaunting the interior of the little house
behind the apple trees looked very much as it had looked when Aunt
Sally and Uncle Tom lived there.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Stetson had been revolving a design in her mind, and
one afternoon she did some canvassing on her own account. The next
time she saw Lovell she said:
"We ain't going to let you do it all. The women folks around here are
going to furnish the refreshments for the golden wedding and the girls
are going to decorate the house with golden rod."
The evening of the wedding anniversary came. Everybody in Blair was in
the plot, including the matron of the poorhouse. That night Aunt Sally
watched the sunset over the hills through bitter tears.
"I never thought I'd be celebrating my golden wedding in the
poorhouse," she sobbed. Uncle Tom put his twisted hand on her shaking
old shoulder, but before he could utter any words of comfort Lovell
Stevens stood before them.
"Just get your bonnet on, Aunt Sally," he cried jovially, "and both of
you come along with me. I've got a buggy here for you ... and you
might as well say goodbye to this place, for you're not coming back to
it any more."
"Lovell, oh, what do you mean?" said Aunt Sally tremulously.
"I'll explain what I mean as we drive along. Hurry up--the folks are
waiting."
When they reached the little old house, it was all aglow with light.
Aunt Sally gave a cry as she entered it. All her old household goods
were back in their places. There were some new ones too, for Lovell
had supplied all that was lacking. The house was full of their old
friends and neighbours. Mrs. Stetson welcomed them home again.
"Oh, Tom," whispered Aunt Sally, tears of happiness streaming down her
old face, "oh, Tom, isn't God good?"
They had a right royal celebration, and a supper such as the Blair
housewives could produce. There were speeches and songs and tales.
Lovell kept himself in the background and helped Mrs. Stetson cut cake
in the pantry all the evening. But when the guests had gone, he went
to Aunt Sally and Uncle Tom, who were sitting by the fire.
"Here's a little golden wedding present for you," he said awkwardly,
putting a purse into Aunt Sally's hand. "I reckon there's enough there
to keep you from ever having to go to the poorhouse again and if not,
there'll be more where that comes from when it's done."
There were twenty-five bright twenty-dollar gold pieces in the purse.
"We can't take it, Lovell," protested Aunt Sally. "You can't afford
it."
"Don't you worry about that," laughed Lovell. "Out west men don't
think much of a little wad like that. I owe you far more than can be
paid in cash, Aunt Sally. You must take it--I want to know there's a
little home here for me and two kind hearts in it, no matter where I
roam."
"God bless you, Lovell," said Uncle Tom huskily. "You don't know what
you've done for Sally and me."
That night, when Lovell went to the little bedroom off the
parlour--for Aunt Sally, rejoicing in the fact that she was again
mistress of a spare room, would not hear of his going to the station
hotel--he gazed at his reflection in the gilt-framed mirror soberly.
"You've just got enough left to pay your passage back west, old
fellow," he said, "and then it's begin all over again just where you
begun before. But Aunt Sally's face was worth it all--yes, sir. And
you've got your two hands still and an old couple's prayers and
blessings. Not such a bad capital, Lovell, not such a bad capital."